That, when I bent over and kissed her cheek as she lay on the sofa—the spot from which she would not rise the next morning—I didn’t say, aloha nui loa, mahalo nui loa—much love, many thanks.

That I didn’t say the same to her adoring husband sitting in a chair next to her, ready to get her anything she might ask for.

That her brother, my longtime sweetheart, stood nearby, thinking, like me, that we’d see her again.

That I said we would return in three days to talk about details for her “after-story.” That I didn’t want to use the word “obituary,” though she knew what I meant. That her generous, struggling heart was already counting its final beats.

Sorry that while I still have breath, she no longer does.

That as my belly swells and my ribs rise, air filling my chest up to my collarbone, she will never issue a hearty chuckle or sing a favorite song or dance to a good jazz band or cook a family dinner.

That I will never again sit at her table, happy to eat anything that woman put on a plate

That her essence will hover in my kitchen each time I make custards the way her mother taught her, the ones I brought this sorta-sister-in-law in her final months.

Sorry that I still don’t have all the particulars to write a proper obit.

That we will never again stand together before the fridge in her kitchen, looking at one of my poems affixed to the silvery box with a magnet shaped like a flip-flop.

That she—who claimed that she didn’t “get” poetry—will no longer tell me that she got a kick out of a particular poem and quote lines she liked.

Sorry that we’ll never again see her smile, which was—to so many who loved her—the perfect poem.

•••

(In memory of Margery Thompson, 1946–2025, the best sorta-sister-in-law ever.)